Squall's Friends
by klepto-maniac0
Summary: Spoiler: Alcohol is not one of Squall's friends. Fortunately he has others... Sort of.


Disclaimer: FF8 and any of its associated characters are not mine. This is a nonprofit work made for giggles.

Squall did not consider himself a drinker, a social person, and especially not a social drinker. But Irvine was his friend, so after putting on the requisite disguise (which Rinoa had helped with, because she loved sticking him in fake hair and makeup for the giggles) and mentally preparing himself for whole two days, Squall was as ready as he'd ever be for a night of bar-hopping in Dollet with Zell, Irvine, and some of Irvine's G-Garden friends. It was a combination birthday/bachelor party of sorts, which was the only reason why Squall drank as much as he did; the uncommon rule was apparently the party could pressure Irvine into drinking if ¾ of them led by example, and drunk Irvine was a very funny Irvine. He didn't lose control of his limbs or anything like that, but instead waxed poetic about all sorts of subjects, like 200-year-old philosophy, the effects of the tides on the tastiness of marine life, and why it was a travesty of biology and fashion that pants did not have a special 'leg' for certain equipment. Squall did enjoy hearing the rambles, being the sort who rambled himself—internally. However, the drunker Squall got, the harder it became for him to keep up with the conversation until he found himself at a table, nodding with a half-empty drink in his hand while nobody was saying anything. The time was 0132 and Squall decided, " _Yes. This is enough alcohol."_

He excused himself from the table to detoxify, not that anyone noticed because this particular bar had a mechanical bull and there was a busty blonde woman with a stripper's leg strength turning that ride into more of a performance than it already was. As soon as Squall stood up he knew he had made a tactical error; he had been feeling pretty drunk sitting down but now that he was standing, it was like he had put his head into a literal new higher level of drunk, and everything promised to be terrible. But sitting down wouldn't help at this point and detoxifying instead became priority one, so Squall left. Wobbling. Again, nobody noticed.

The bathroom was located in a heavily shadowed corner of the bar and way harder to find than it should have been between the volume of people present and the disorienting effects of loud music, flashing lights, and people having to shout at each other to make themselves heard. Why did people do this to themselves? The noise and chaos was like battle or war, but instead of fear and adrenaline and the possibility of death, there was only the dreadful realization of social bonds keeping one imprisoned more securely than chains. Consequently Squall thought longingly of home, of being in a nice warm bed with Rinoa on his side and Angelo on his legs, just sleeping away this pounding thing in his head that was threatening to be more than awful. Why had he done this to himself? Stupid friends. Having friends, that was. Bleah.

Squall got into the bathroom, which was clean by bar standards but still far from pristine, and managed to get to a toilet before he altered that status for the worst. It took only one heave before he vomited what felt like the entire content of his digestive system, and then vomited again until his sides cramped. The most disgusting sour slurry of liquid and half-digested food made Squall hit the lever to flush the toilet while he was still throwing up, and the further noise echoed in the small stall, making Squall groan softly and press the heels of his hands into his temples.

"Sweetie, are you okay?"

…Sweetie?

Squall lifted his head and turned around blearily. A matronly bathroom attendant wearing a grey dress and an apron was looking in on him, and behind her were no less than three young ladies all dressed to the nines and looking like fabulous jewels in glittering dresses and even more glittery makeup. Squall was totally confused. Why were there women in the men's restroom?

Wait.

Oh no.

"Um," was all Squall managed to get out, too shocked to even be mortified.

The ladies were helpful. All of them. One of the finely dressed girls helped the bathroom attendant pick Squall up and plunk him onto a small couch near the bathroom entrance, which was when Squall realized that the ladies' room had a whole separate waiting area to it that was actually kind of nice. While he absently noticed this, the well-dressed girl (who reminded him of Quistis because she was blonde and wearing a dress that shimmered from coral to pink to orange in really cool ways) took a penlight out of her clutch and checked his pupils in a brisk manner.

"How much have you had?" She asked, checking his pulse.

"Uh… Umm…" Hyne, it was hard to think. "Two Salty Sea Dogs. And some shots. And some beer… Two beer. No, three. No… Two later, three before. And—"

"In other words, too much," said the blonde woman, looking at him in mixed amusement and pity. "Do you have friends who can take care of you?"

"Yes…" said Squall, marveling at the utter concern some people could muster for total strangers. No wonder humanity thought angels existed.

"Where are they?"

"They're…" Squall gestured weakly, trying to indicate the bar area. Unfortunately he wasn't looking where he was gesturing and accidentally pointed out the window in the waiting salon, which made the blonde woman and all her friends look that way. "Out there…"

"Aww, he's all alone," said one of the girls, who was wearing a minidress of dark blue. She must have been drunk too, because her voice practically dripped with sadness as she said, "He has no friends!"

"I have friends!" Squall objected, but he couldn't muster anything more coherent than that as a sudden wave of nausea overtook him. Fortunately he did not barf all over anyone, but the blonde woman made him put his head between his knees and the matronly bathroom attendant gave him a bottle of water and wouldn't let him go until he'd drank at least half of it.

From then on the night was a blur. Squall remembered the last glittering girl summoning a taxi while the second glittering girl rifled his pockets for his wallet and his hotel card, which had the address of where he was staying in multiple languages. Squall also remembered the taxi driver pantomiming that it was okay to sleep, trying to tip the taxi driver before the hotel concierge gently took care of the task and then put him in the elevator, and then the sweet cool embrace of a soft bed and puffy blankets that he couldn't quite feel because he was in all in his clothes. Somewhere along the way, Squall knew he threw up again but couldn't remember where, and by the time Zell came back all but sober from worry, Squall was completely dead to the world.

"Which is why," he said to Rinoa the next day when she saw him. "I need your help getting this stuff off my face, because apparently there's a rule that if you pass out with your shoes on—"

"Enough said, babe," said Rinoa, her eyes glittering with sheer hilarity as Squall unwrapped the scarf from around his face and grumpily showed her the dicks that Irvine, Zell, and Hyne only knew who else had drawn all over his head. She tried really hard not to laugh and failed, though she assuaged his ego later after a bit of coconut oil and warm water had eliminated the damage. And the end result was not that Squall stopped drinking, but rather that he loosened his laces and made sure his friends weren't carrying permanent markers anymore.

/\/\/\

a/n: See? Squall makes friends everywhere.

/\/\/\/\/\


End file.
